Light the Candle
by Acidity
Summary: Una Meredith can't get over Walter Blythe's death and desperately wants a job that will take her out of Glen St. Mary's. Seymour Grant desperately needs a tutor for his nephew: the only problem is he won't hire females.
1. Chapter 1

Una Meredith was well on her way to sainthood. Even though her sister Faith's wedding reception had only started an hour ago, no less than fourteen of Glen St. Mary's most notorious gossips had managed to catch Una by the arm and ask loudly when her turn would come.

Una had smiled at the first few and said nothing, she knew they meant to be kind, but by the time number fourteen, Mrs. Fitzgibbon approached, her patience was wearing thin.

"Una, Una," Mrs. Fitzgibbon cried, "What are you going to do now that you've finished your degree at Kingsport? You aren't as pretty as your sister Faith, you know. And men are in short supply after the war."

"Stay at home I imagine," Una said. She looked at the center of the garden where Faith was standing with Jem, surrounded by family and friends. Faith's golden-brown curls were draped with foaming veil and her eyes were bright lanterns in her face. Jem had an arm wrapped around her and from time he would look down at Faith and stare and stare as if he would never stop.

Funny how brothers were so different, Una thought. She'd half expect to see that expression on Walter's face. It would suit his delicate features better, his poet's complexion and glossy hair. Jem in love was slightly breath taking, slightly ridiculous. Jem was better outdoors, playing with the dogs, wading in brooks, then painfully and achingly in love. That was for Walter, the poet…but Una couldn't think of Walter.

"Eh, you aren't secretly pining after some poor fellow that was killed, are you now?" Mrs. Fitzgibbon said.

Una winced. She tapped her bodice where she'd tucked Walter's last letter. I mustn't think about him, she thought. Not today.

Rilla Blythe who happened to be passing by with Kenneth Ford, stopped and put an arm around Una's shoulders.

"Una's going to have grand adventures Mrs. Fitzgibbon," she said. "You'll see."

Una smiled. Her face hurt. All last year she had been glued to her books, so glued in fact that she'd completed the two year course in one year, and she'd managed to almost forget about Walter Blythe. But here, at sister's wedding in Glen St. Mary, he seemed to be everywhere.

Later, people at Glen St. Mary's said that they'd never known what a force of nature Una was until they saw her at her sister's wedding. She seemed to be everywhere at once, pressing more cake on the guests, carrying out bowls of punch, coaxing crotchety old bachelors to dance, and untangling squabbling school children.

But Una didn't know what the people of Glen St. Mary's were saying, and even if she had known, she wouldn't have cared. All she knew is that she had to keep moving, because everywhere she looked she saw a slim grey eyed boy smiling at her. Walter stood under the trees while she served punch, winked at her when the matrons of Glen St. Mary's kept chatting away, and held her lightly in his arms as she danced with the old bachelors.

He's dead, and he never loved you, she told herself, but it was no use. Walter was everywhere, watching her steadily. Wait for me, his eyes seemed to say. Wait.

So Una waited. She danced her way through the wedding, saw Jem and Faith off to the train station for their honeymoon and when the last guests had departed, Una ran down to Rainbow Valley but the shadows behind the trees were empty, and when she called out to the air, no one answered. She lay down in the grass and stared at the night sky and the silent mocking stars.

Without Faith around to tease Una and prod her, the days dragged by. Even though Rilla was over nearly every day, her conversation was full of Kenneth Ford and her upcoming wedding—which Una preferred, silence would have been worse—and it wasn't quite the same as having a sister living with her.

Carl and Jerry were kind in their own way, but Carl was busy planning an expedition to Ontario to catch bugs and Jerry was off a-wooing Nan in that strange courtship they had which seemed to involve quoting Greek philosophers and quite a lot of screaming.

Una would have never made it through the summer without Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe. They would sit together on the porch, Mrs. Blythe reading poetry or the interesting bits from newspapers and Rosemary working on a patchwork quilt.

Una would bring out the family mending and listen to them talk. Mending kept her hands busy, and she could follow the conversation long enough to ignore the dull ache in her chest, but when Mrs. Blythe packed up her books to leave and Rosemary went off to visit her sister, Una was left in the house all alone. It was then that she felt the pain spread outwards from her chest, filling her lungs, and her throat would close up as if she were underwater and slowly drowning.

She blazed through the rest of the mending and took on the Ladies' Aid Society's extra baskets, but that too wasn't enough, so she busied herself cutting extra patchwork squares for Rosemary, until Rosemary begged her to stop.

One day when Una was sewing doll's clothes for some harbor children and Rosemary had been called away, Mrs. Blythe put down her book and said, "Una…I'm worried about you."

Una looked up. "What?"

"Una," Mrs. Blythe said slowly, "You're a ghost of yourself. You've lost so much weight I'm afraid you'll fade away. Now that Faith is married, why don't you do something for yourself? Strike out on your own."

"I don't know what I can do, Mrs. Blythe," Una said. "I'm not particularly clever or educated. I already had a year in Kingsport studying and I haven't any talents besides keeping house."

"Let me think about it," said Mrs. Blythe said.

After she left, Una stared at the doll clothing she had stitched. Through the window she could see the lush greenery of manse garden and the thick foliage of the trees. It was hard to believe it would be autumn in a few weeks.

Some weeks afterwards Mrs. Blythe appeared at the manse carrying a letter. "Listen to this," she said plumping herself down among the cushions. "It's from Leslie Ford." She unfolded the letter and read to Una:

_Anne of Annes would you have a spare corner at Ingleside for a friend of ours? His name is Seymour Grant and he's a writer. He is the dearest creature imaginable. Well, dearest in a very strange sense of the word. But he's recently adopted his sister's little boy and they're both going to have a hard time of it. Glen St. Mary is one of the train stops en route to Seymour's cottage, and I thought they could spend a few days with you before going on. Also, Seymour's looking for a tutor. Would you know anyone suitable? Someone quiet, good with children, and self-sufficient. _

"Una, what do you think?" Mrs. Blythe cried. "This could be your chance."

* * *

Seymour Grant leaned his head against the train seat. Next to him Anthony lay curled up into a little ball. Every so often Anthony would shake. Seymour reached out a hand and stroked Anthony's brown curls, but Anthony kept shaking. Seymour sighed. It had been a long trip to New York, and when he had arrived, he'd found Anthony in the care of an orphanage. The matron had seemed nice enough, but lord...everything else.

Seymour shuddered. It had been full of squalling children who all seemed hungry and dirty. Seymour wrapped his arm around Anthony in a silent apology, but no matter what he did, he could not forgive himself for being away when Anthony needed him. James had been killed in the war a few months before it ended, and Cilla had never been strong to begin with. The news of her husband's death had finished her off, and somehow the telegram had arrived after Seymour had left for a book tour in the States. Anthony had had to spend three months in the orphanage before Seymour had returned home, found the telegram, and rushed to New York.

Anthony opened his eyes. They were wide and gray, too large for his thin face. He uncurled himself and wrapped his arms around his knees. He was nearly all skin and bone.

"We'll be arriving at Glen St. Mary in a few hours," Seymour said. "Have something to eat." He pulled a sandwich out of his bag." It hurt him to look at Anthony's body. How had he gotten so thin? He had been such a plump baby.

Anthony didn't say anything. He'd hardly spoken to Seymour even though they'd been traveling together for a week now.

"We'll be staying with Mrs. Blythe, and hopefully she'll have found a tutor. I live alone on an island. It's quite out of the way, and I don't want your schooling to be neglected." Seymour continued.

Anthony stared at his feet.

Seymour curled his hands in his pocket. It was ridiculous, he'd given talks all around the country in lecture halls crammed with thousands of people, but he'd spent the past week feeling more nervous and inadequate than he'd felt in his entire life.

It was a relief when the train pulled into the Glen St. Mary station. Dr. and Mrs. Blythe were at the platform waiting for them. He liked the Blythes immediately. Dr. Blythe had gripped his hand, and had kept up most of the conversation as if he knew Seymour was too exhausted to talk, and Mrs. Blythe had taken one look at Anthony and wrapped an arm around him. She didn't say anything to Anthony, but every so often she gave him a friendly squeeze. Anthony didn't say anything either, but he looked happiest Seymour had ever seen him.

The Blythes lead the back to Ingleside and fed them a light supper. After they had eaten, Mrs. Blythe had shown Seymour to the spare room.

"Train rides can be exhausting," she said. "I'll read Anthony a story and put him to bed for you in the nursery."

Seymour was so tired he hadn't bothered to protest. Instead he'd squeezed Anthony's shoulder, smiled gratefully at Mrs. Blythe and collapsed onto the bed once she shut the door. Yet, he could not sleep. His thoughts whirled around in his mind. A week ago Anthony had been the chubby baby nephew Seymour dimly remembered. Now, Anthony was his for life, and Seymour could barely talk to him.

Seymour winced. He was a crusty old bachelor who wrote for a living. He lived on an island to avoid publicity, and when he wasn't on the island he was on tour or doing undercover research for newspapers. There was no way he could take an eight year old boy on some of his assignments and there was no way he could leave Anthony behind on the island.

The next morning Seymour woke up late and found that Mrs. Blythe had set up a brunch in the garden. The sun was bright and high and shone directly in Seymour's eyes whenever he looked toward Anthony, who was sitting next to Mrs. Blythe.

"Seymour," Mrs. Blythe began as she poured coffee and filled Seymour's plate, "I hope this isn't too presumptuous of me but Leslie Ford wrote to me…"

Seymour nodded and took a bite of his pancakes. They were warm and light, far better than the usual bachelor's fare he was used to. Anthony was humming, well not quite, but from time to time he would let out a sort of buzzing noise and Seymour felt perfectly happy.

Mrs. Blythe's voice was gentle hum in his ears. Over her shoulder he could see the garden gate and beyond it a red path that lead to the center of town. There was a pale girl wandering down the path. She had so much hair it was difficult for Seymour to get any impression of her features, but her figure was slender and neat and her white dress shone against the lush greenery of the landscape.

She drew closer and stopped at the Ingleside gate. Seymour could almost make out the shape of her face, but then she bent her head to open the garden gate. Who was she? Perhaps Mrs. Blythe's daughter, but no, wouldn't she be inside the house already? A close friend then.

The girl walked to the side of their table and stood behind Anthony. When Seymour turned his head to look at her the sun burned his eyes, forcing him to blink.

"Seymour, this is Una," Mrs. Blythe finished. "I thought she could be Anthony's tutor.

Seymour squinted up at the faceless girl and tried not to grimace.

"Oh no. No, she won't do at all," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

As she hurried down the path to Ingleside, Una tried to take deep calming breathes. She'd put on a plain white dress and done up her hair in a severe knot in an attempt to look like an experienced matron, but she still felt like shy, scared little Una.

"It won't matter if he doesn't hire me," she told herself. She'd just keep sewing dolls clothes for the harbor children and helping Rosemary with the mending. From time to time she'd visit Faith or perhaps she'd keep house for Carl. She wouldn't get her hopes up. After all she wasn't any good with boys. She tended to get along better with girls, quiet girls.

All too soon she arrived at the Ingleside gate. Mrs. Blythe was eating breakfast in the garden with a man and a small boy. Seymour Grant and his nephew. Una paused, and then decided to cut across the garden. She didn't have the nerve to walk straight up to Seymour.

The boy was hunched over something, and his back was towards Una, but she had an excellent view of Seymour's face as she walked across the garden. He had waving chestnut hair, a large sloping nose that dominated his face. His mouth was thin and curled at the corners. He wasn't breathtakingly handsome the way Walter was, but his face was interesting and it held your attention.

"Perfect timing, Una," Mrs. Blythe said, when Una arrived at the table. "Seymour, this is Una. I thought she could be Anthony's tutor."

Seymour looked at her, winced, and put his hand over his eyes. Una immediately felt like she had too many arms and legs.

"Oh no. No, she won't do at all," he said. "I'm sorry, but I really can't hire a woman."

"Why not?" Mrs. Blythe demanded.

"I live on an island all by myself."

"I wouldn't mind that," Una said hesitatingly. "If you wouldn't." She folded her hands behind her back.

"The neighbors would and if the reporters heard about this, they'd make your life miserable. Besides, the nature of my work requires a lot of traveling in odd corners of the earth. A woman wouldn't be welcome in many of them, so she wouldn't be able to accomplish some of the things a man could. I was actually hoping for a tutor slash secretary."

"But, I'm very organized and I keep house perfectly." Una said. Then she wished she'd been silent. Keep house perfectly? Was that really all she had to recommend herself?

"Una's a treasure," Mrs. Blythe said. "She cooks wonderfully. Don't think I didn't notice the way you devoured up those pancakes. You're starved for a good meal, and Anthony could use some excellent cooking. Do you really think a man will be able to take care of Anthony as well as Una could?" She smiled at Anthony, but Anthony said nothing.

Una wanted to walk around the table so she could see Anthony's face, but her feet seemed glued to the ground.

"I…I'd do my best," she said.

Seymour smiled and shook his head. "It's been lovely meeting you, Ms. ?"

"Meredith."

"Ms. Meredith, but we need a man, and I'm sure Anthony would feel much better with a man, wouldn't he?" Seymour smiled down at Anthony, but there was no reply. "It's not just about propriety, but practicality as well. Good day."

Una looked helplessly at Mrs. Blythe. For once in her life, Mrs. Blythe seemed to be at a loss for words.

"I'll see you later, Una," she said.

Una turned and fled.

It was dinner time before Una could convince herself to leave the comfort of Rainbow Valley and return home. At dinner Rosemary and her father talked about the manse as usual while her father discussed some ideas for his next sermon and Una wanted to burst into tears and tell them to stop, stop, just stop it but she didn't know what she wanted them to stop.

Una lay awake in bed that night. Mrs. Blythe's words kept ringing in her ears. Strike out on your own. Strike out on your own. But how? Doing what? If Walter was alive…If Walter had lived, she would have what? Married him? Una laughed to herself. Walter had liked her, certainly, he'd responded to her letters but there was no reason to believe he'd ever love her.

She rolled out of bed, pushed aside the window curtains and looked at her face in the mirror. The moonlight shone on her thick masses of hair which drowned out her small features. She looked like a mouse, a tiny trembling mouse.

She lay back down again and wondered if this was going to be the rest of her life: scurrying around with the mending, sewing so many doll clothes she couldn't give them away fast enough, tucking Walter's letter in her dress every morning. Soon Jerry and Carl would marry, all the Ingleside Blythes would move away and she, Una, would still be at the manse with Father and Rosemary, until they too died and she was left alone.

Una covered her head with her pillow, but she could not still her thoughts. Seymour was leaving next evening, and he would be taking her second chance at life with him. She had to make this happen. She had to. She tossed and turned and finally fell into a fitful sleep.

Then, at three in the morning, she sat up in her bed stuck by an idea so overwhelming in its lunacy it took her breath away. She was going to make this happen.

Seymour shook Dr. Blythe's hand regretfully and smiled at Mrs. Blythe. He was sorry to leave Ingleside but his next book was waiting on his desk, and besides he wanted Anthony to get settled as soon as possible.

"I'm sorry we can't see you to the train station," Dr. Blythe said. "Unfortunately, a doctor's schedule is determined by the whims of illness."

"Oh, Anthony and I will enjoy the walk," Seymour said easily. "We need exercise after the way Mrs. Blythe has been feeding us."

Mrs. Blythe smiled back at him. "I'm amazed I still like you," she said, "even though you won't be obliging and follow my plans. Are you sure you don't want—"

Dr. Blythe stepped on her foot.

"Oh, Mrs. Blythe, you're an angel for putting up with a scoundrel like me," Seymour said gallantly. Mrs. Blythe had spent the rest of the visit trying to convince him that Una-what's-her-name would be the perfect tutor for Anthony. Seymour was glad he was going, any longer and he might have caved.

"Oh, and Anthony, this is for you." Mrs. Blythe passed him a blue stuffed elephant. "It used to belong to one of my sons," she said. A shadow crossed her face for a moment. "I think he would have liked for you to have it."

Anthony took the elephant and stroked its trunk. "Does he have a name?"

"Yes." Mrs. Blythe said. "It's…" she struggled for a moment. "That's funny. I can't seem to remember it."

Dr. Blythe patted her hand.

It was a windy afternoon, Seymour thought. Windy enough that it was no surprise Mrs. Blythe's eyes were damp.

After a moment or two, Mrs. Blythe continued. "I think he's beginning a new life with you, Anthony. You should give him a new name. Make him happy."

Anthony smiled, a smile so startlingly sweet, that Seymour held his breathe. "I will. Thank you," he said.

The walk to the station passed quickly. For once Anthony talked.

"Shall I call him Bootles?"

"No. Imagine what all the other animals will do to the poor creature," Seymour said. "What about a nice simple name like Roger?"

"That's not very elephant-y at all," Anthony said.

Miracle of miracles. Anthony had opinions. Seymour clutched his heart and pretended to stagger. "Anthony, you wound me," he cried.

Anthony laughed.

I should have bought him toys, Seymour thought. That's what any reasonable caretaker would have done, but the idea hadn't even occurred to him.

"Wally?"

"No!"

"Woo?"

"Anthony, if you ever have sons you are absolutely not allowed to name them."

When they reached the station platform they found it deserted except for a thin young man holding a crumpled newspaper. From time to time he would peer at them over the newspaper.

Seymour smiled at him.

The young man put down his newspaper and blushed violently. Then he picked it up again. Then he crumpled it up again, stood up and marched over to Seymour.

"A-are you S-s-seymour G-rant?" he stuttered. His hat slipped over his eyes, and his clothes were far too big for him.

Oh lord. Another fan. Seymour hoped he wouldn't follow them into the compartment and insist on chatting for the entire train ride. He thought he'd be safe in a small place like Glen St. Mary, but apparently not.

"Yes," Seymour said curtly. "What can I do for you?"

"Iheardyouwantedatutor."

"Er, say that again?"

"Tutor. Do you need a tutor?" The young man gasped out. His hands were clenched into fists.

Seymour blinked. A tutor. Oh. He looked at the fellow more carefully. A few wisps of black hair peeked out underneath the hat. Rather on the smallish side, and young looking. Very young. His face was a pale oval without the slightest hint of stubble. Almond shaped dark blue eyes. Wistful eyes.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty four."

Seymour arched an eyebrow. "Really? You look about sixteen."

The young man shuffled his feet.

"Sixteen then. So tell me, why should I hire a sixteen year old?"

"I know a little bit of Greek and Latin. My handwriting is good."

"Good for you," Seymour said.

"I can cook a bit, I'm pretty handy around the house, and I'm a fast learner," he said all in a rush.

Seymour sighed. He didn't seem promising, but they weren't likely to meet more people on the way to Seymour's island, and once they arrived at the island it would be difficult to advertise. Still…there was something distinctly off about the man, boy, really. Why was he so nervous? "Anthony, what do you think?"

Anthony looked at the young man.

He looked back at Anthony. Seymour hoped he wouldn't pass out, he was staring at Anthony so intently he couldn't possibly be breathing.

"Please," the young man croaked. "Please, Anthony. I'll take good care of you…" he glanced at Anthony's arms, "and that very fine elephant."

Later, Seymour swore it was the mention of the elephant that did the trick.

"Alright," Anthony said.

Seymour's jaw dropped open. Where was Anthony's famous silence? Where were the days of staring at the ground? Then he grinned. The fellow coaxed one word out of Anthony. That was better than Seymour pre-elephant.

"What's your name?" Seymour asked.

"U—um, Walter. Walter Piper."

"Well, Mr. Piper, you're hired," Seymour said. He went over the wages (good), and the days off (very bad, none), and the duties which ranged from taking care of Anthony to running errands for Seymour, but the young man didn't seem troubled.

Instead he was gazing into the distance, his blue eyes full of light, brilliant instead of wistful, and he was standing very straight, his shoulders thrown back as if he could see far into the future and he was marching forward to meet it because it would be bright and glorious.


End file.
